373 


LATER  VERSES 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

COLLECTED   VERSES 

WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
H.  J.  FORD 

Fcap.  Zvo.     $s.  net 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO. 

LONDON,  NEW  YORK,  BOMBAY,  CALCUTTA,  AND  MADRAS 


LATER  VERSES 


BY 

ALFRED   COCHRANE 

AUTHOR  OF  'COLLECTED  VERSES' 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
H.  J.  FORD 


LONGMANS,    GREEN     AND    CO. 

39    PATERNOSTER    ROW,     LONDON 

FOURTH  AVENUE  &  3OTH  STREET,  NEW  YORK 

BOMBAY,    CALCUTTA,    AND  MADRAS 

I9l8 


PREFACE 

SOME  of  the  verses  in  this  collection  were  published 
about  twelve  years  ago  in  a  small  volume  called 
'  The  Sweeper  of  the  Leaves.'  For  permission  to 
reproduce  others  I  owe  my  grateful  thanks  to  the 
editors  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  Country  Life, 
Punch,  and  the  Spectator. 

The  majority  of  them  were  written  before  the 
war,  and  the  only  excuse  for  republishing  them  hi 
these  altered  days  is  that,  for  me  at  least,  they 
revive  happy  memories. 

A.  C. 


£81076 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  SWEEPER  OF  THE  LEAVES * 

THE  MILK  CART 4 

CHRISTMAS  CAROL 6 

THE  FAIRIES 8 

SLEEPING  KASPAR 10 

To  THE  FOUNDER u 

A  CHILD'S  EPITAPH 13 

BALLAD  OF  THE  ST.  GOTHARD  TUNNEL 15 

THE  DESERTER i? 

JOACHIM 19 

LAZARUS 20 

LIFE'S  FAVOURITE 23 

SIR  JOHN'S  TOMB 25 

THE  LAST  GROUSE 27 

Dis  AUTER 29 

I  PUBLISH  THE  BANNS 3<> 

AFTER  THE  HOLIDAYS       32 

To  ELINOR 34 

THE  PIONEER 36 

AT  QUEEN'S  CLUB 37 

FROM  Aix  TO  ARGYLL 40 

To  A  ROUNDHEAD 42 

BALLADE  OF  BIRDS'-NESTING 44 

THE  DEAD  CHIEF 46 

THE  OLD  GAMEKEEPER 47 

A  BALLAD  OF  LABELS 51 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  GUIDE  BOOK 53 

To  MARJORIE 55 

THE  SWALLOWS 57 

THE  BLESSING  OF  ESAU 59 

A  LAODICEAN 62 

QUEEN  ANNE 66 

THE  LITTLE  HORSES 68 

DIANA  OF  THE  EPHESIANS 7o 

PILOT 72 

THE  COVERTS,  1914 74 

MURUM  AEDIFICANT 76 

THE  FOURTH  RIDDLE 78 

HAMBLEDON 80 

THE  YOUNG  IDEA 83 

VERBA  NON  FACTA  . 85 

THE  LAST  POSTBOY 88 

LAMPADEPHORIA 90 

OXONIENSIS  OXONIENSI 92 

EASTER  PSALMS 94 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 95 

EPHEMERIS 97 

THE  MERMAID 99 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ORIANA 101 

THE  MASTER'S  MATCH.    1889-1914 103 

HOLIDAY  IN  WARTIME 105 

THE  Two  LAST  COLLECTS 106 

WEDDING  HYMN 7 108 

THE  HAPPY  YEARS  .    .  .no 


THE  SWEEPER  OF  THE  LEAVES 

WHEN  Autumn's  misty  trail  is  drawn 
In  cobwebs  on  the  sodden  lawn, 
When  strewn  about  the  garden  ways 
Lies  the  lost  pomp  of  summer  days, 
The  gardener  sedulously  sweeps 
The  withered  leaves  in  yellow  heaps, 
And  $lies  his  broom  on  bed  and  border, 
To  bring  untidiness  to  order. 

Yet,  while  he  sweeps,  the  restless  breeze, 
That  whispers  mischief  to  the  trees, 
Filling  the  drear  October  sky 
With  clouds  of  dead  leaves  hurrying  by, 
Strews  them  afresh  upon  the  soil 
As  if  in  mockery  of  his  toil. 

Thinking  it  foolishness  to  mask 
The  obvious  failure  of  his  task, 
To  him  as  one  who  warred  with  fate 
I  deemed  it  well  to  demonstrate 
How  when  his  broom  and  he  were  gone 
The  russet  leaf-storm  still  went  on. 

He  heard  me  as  he  swept  the  walk, 
Then  leaned  upon  his  broom  to  talk  : 
A 


THE  SWKETER  OF  THE  LEAVES 


Whiie,  with  aj  uncomplaining  glance, 

He  watched  the  dead  leaves  whirl  and  dance, 

And  answered  ere  he  bent  once  more 

To  sweeping,  '  It  were  wuss  afore  !  ' 

He  paused  again.     '  Beside/  said  he, 

'  I'm  one  as  canna  let  things  be. 

It  ain't  much  use  this  time  o'  year, 

Still,  you  can  tell  a  broom's  bin  'ere.' 

He  gave  his  head  a  thoughtful  jerk, 

And  placidly  resumed  his  work. 

Marking  his  ineffectual  zest, 
I  tried  his  moral  to  digest. 
The  world  is  full,  it  seems  to  me, 
Of  those  who  cannot  let  things  be, 
And  human  effort  still  achieves 
Tasks  like  the  sweeping  of  the  leaves. 
In  every  corner  of  the  land 
Gather  the  sweepers,  broom  in  hand, 
And  still  disorder  mars  the  scene 
Where  they  and  their  Reforms  have  been  ; 
And  life,  the  while  they  travail  sore, 
Looks  as  untidy  as  before. 

So  be  it :  but  although  the  staff 
Of  critics — who  do  nothing — laugh, 
Yet  has  the  littered  landscape  room 
Ev'n  for  the  sweeper  and  his  broom  ; 
And  it  may  be,  one  autumn  day, 
When  effort  falters  by  the  way, 


THE  SWEEPER  OF  THE  LEAVES 


In  hours  when  all  applause  is  dumb, 
That  the  reward  of  toil  shall  come. 

For  to  the  garden  shall  draw  nigh 
A  more  observant  passer-by, 
Who,  even  if  the  sight  prevents 
A  prouder  flow  of  compliments, 
Will  yet  acknowledge,  never  fear, 
That — Some  one  with  a  broom  was  here. 


THE  MILK  CART 


THE   MILK   CART 

(IN  THE  MIDLANDS) 

up  !    Ate  you  right  there  ?    Aye  : 
whoa ! 

For  'appen  the  kitchen  clock  be  slow, 
And  it's  all  three  mile  as  we've  got  to  go 
Along  the  lane  from  Burnaston. 

Behind  the  yard  gate  swings  and  shuts, 
As  the  old  mare,  stumbling  across  the  ruts, 
Pulls  out,  with  the  yellow  lamps  alight, 
Into  the  raw  December  night ; 
And  'twixt  the  hedges,  and  round  the  turns, 
Jogs  on  with  her  load  of  banging  churns. 

For  this  is  the  tale  and  the  task  of  the  shire, 
The  tale  that  starts  with  the  cows  in  the  byre, 
And  ends  down  a  hundred  winding  lanes, 
With  the  carts  that  rattle  to  catch  the  trains, 
And  to  leave  in  the  wayside  platform's  gloom 
Their  tally  of  churns  that  bang  and  boom — 
Gallons  and  gallons,  pouring  south, 
Into  the  great  town's  thirsty  mouth. 


THE  MILK  CART 


Come  up  I  or  we'll  miss  the  seven-five, 
And  it's  us  as  keeps  the  place  alive, 
Us  and  the  clatterin'  cart  we  drive 
Along  the  lane  from  Burnaston. 

Surely  this  earth,  where  one  lives  and  learns, 
It  spins  to  the  sound  of  the  banging  churns, 
And  all  mankind  to  that  clang  and  boom 
Must  tread  a  measure  from  cot  to  tomb. 

There  is  the  town  with  the  crowds  that  wait 
Our  cart  that  jolts  through  the  stack-yard  gate, 
The  town  with  its  millions  who  strive  and  stir 
For  their  dole  of  the  kind  earth's  provender, 
From  my  lady,  gorgeous  hi  lace  and  silk, 
With  her  morning  maid  and  her  morning  milk, 
To  the  hungry  children  for  whom  our  load 
Means  life  or  death  in  the  Mile  End  Road  ; 
And  here,  at  the  other  end  of  the  chain, 
Is  Pegg's  old  mare  in  Burnaston  lane. 

Come  up  !  they  be  cleverer  far  nor  we, 
The  folk  i'  the  town,  but  where  'ud  they  be, 
Where  'ud  they  be,  wi'out  you  an'  me, 
Bumpin'  along  from  Burnaston  ? 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

STAR  iii  the  East,  of  beauty  rare, 
That  went  before  and  stayed 
Above  the  lowly  threshold,  where 
The  new-born  Christ  was  laid  ; 
Star  that  rejoiced  the  wise  men's  eyes 

On  that  first  Christmas  night, 
You  shine  along  the  centuries 
And  touch  the  earth  with  light. 

Hymn  of  goodwill  and  sins  forgiven, 

That  from  the  midnight  sky 
Stole  from  the  white-robed  choir  of  heaven 

In  mystic  harmony  ; 
You  thrilled  the  listening  shepherds'  ears, 

And  still,  with  living  power, 
Proclaim  across  two  thousand  years 

Peace  in  the  anxious  hour. 


CHRISTMAS   CAROL 


Ay,  God  be  thanked,  for  many  a  heart, 

By  sorrow  overborne, 
May  find  its  aching  pass  in  part 

Upon  this  Christmas  morn, 
May,  though  the  way  to  truth  be  far, 

And  though  the  path  be  dim, 
Still  catch  some  glimmer  of  that  star, 

Some  echo  of  that  hymn. 


THE  FAIRIES 


THE  FAIRIES 

ATE  !  they  may  see,  who  still  believe, 
The  Fairies  on  Midsummer  eve, 
And  catch  the  sparkle  of  their  shoon, 
Footing  it  in  hay-scented  meadows 
Under  the  yellow  moon. 

Come,  where  the  hedgerow  warblers  wake 
Their  serenades  for  summer's  sake, 
And,  hidden  in  the  leafy  screen, 
Amid  the  hemlock  and  dog-roses, 
Watch  the  enchanted  green. 

Look  at  them  as  they  form  in  line, 

And  mark  their  glow-worm  lamps  that  shine, 

The  little  folk  of  the  woods  and  dells, 
Tripping  away  to  a  lively  measure, 
Rung  upon  cowslip  bells. 

Can  you  not  see  them  tread  the  ring, 
Gossamer,  Greensleeves,  Silverwing, 
Sober  brownie  and  grinning  elf, 
All  of  them  out  of  the  tattered  volume 
Now  on  the  schoolroom  shelf  ? 


THE  FAIRIES 


What,  is  there  nothing  there  revealed, 
Except  a  mown  five-acre  field, 
A  dewy  fence,  a  rick  of  hay, 
And  somewhere,  calling  in  the  distance, 
A  corn-crake,  far  away  ? 

Alas  !  alas  !  these  fancies  find 
The  eyes  of  all  but  dreamers  blind, 

For  only  they  who  still  believe 
May  see  the  Fairies  hi  the  moonlight 
Dance  on  Midsummer  eve. 


SLEEPING  KASPAR 


SLEEPING  KASPAR 

I  SEE  you  lying,  warm  and  snug, 
Stretched  in  the  firelight  on  the  rug, 
And  wrapped  in  that  half-conscious  doze, 
Which  much  of  its  own  sweetness  knows. 

Here  in  your  dreams  you  try  to  catch 
The  rabbits  in  the  bracken  patch  ; 
You  follow  scents  which  are  bewitching, 
And  set  your  paws  insanely  twitching. 

Anon  with  sleepy  yelps  and  howls 
Are  mingled  fierce  and  threatening  growls, 
Meant,  I  suppose,  to  fill  with  fear 
Such  phantom  dogs  as  venture  near. 

And  yet  in  actual  life  I  find 
You  something  peaceably  inclined, 
And  apt,  it  must  be  owned,  to  beat 
In  peril's  hour  a  prompt  retreat. 

Well,  some  of  us,  resembling  you, 
Imagine  deeds  we  dare  not  do, 
Cravens,  for  whose  ambition  gleams 
The  torch  of  valour  in  our  dreams. 


TO  THE  FOUNDER 


TO  THE  FOUNDER 

SCHOOL  SONG,  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  SIR  JOHN  PORT 
WHO  BY  HIS  WILL  FOUNDED  REPTON  IN  1557] 

SIR  JOHN,  he  was  a  faithful  knight, 
Who  lived  when  might  was  counted  right, 
When  every  man  aspired  to  fight 

A  foe  if  he  could  find  him  : 
But  old  Sir  John  abjured  the  fray, 
And  chose  a  less  aggressive  way 
To  leave  a  name  behind  him. 

He  looked  and  saw  a  village  green, 

A  place  where  prior  and  monk  had  been, 

And  so  therein  a  fitting  scene 

For  his  design  discerning, 
What  time  his  quiet  days  were  spent, 
He  left  beside  the  river  Trent 

A  seat  of  sober  learning. 


TO  THE  FOUNDER 


He  said,  These  hallowed  shades  shall  see 
My  Repton  boys,  remembering  me, 
Go  forth  in  summer  terms  to  be, 

The  sons  of  my  foundation  : 
To  enter  in  the  lists  of  life, 
And  serve  in  days  of  peace  or  strife 

Their  God,  and  king,  and  nation. 

So  be  it  ours  our  Founder's  will 
With  loyal  purpose  to  fulfil, 
Resolved,  while  yonder  standard  still 

Swings  in  the  breeze  before  us, 
To  stand  in  all  we  say  or  do 
To  him  and  his  tradition  true, 

And  sing  our  thanks  in  chorus. 

Old  Sir  John,  gallant  Sir  John  ! 

Jolly  Sir  John,  you  are  dead  and  gone  : 
Yet  in  your  name,  telling  your  fame, 

The  School  of  your  founding  still  goes  on, 
Steadfast  in  aim,  playing  the  game, 
And  guarding  the  Gate  that  is  free  from  blame. 


A  CHILD'S  EPITAPH  13 


A  CHILD'S  EPITAPH 

NEAR  THIS  PLACE  LIETH  THE  BODY  OF  MARY  THORP, 
WHO    DIED   JUNE   I3TH,    1782,    AGED    II    YEARS" 

YOU  feel,  a  hundred  years  away, 
The  sorrow  of  that  summer  day, 
And  see  the  quiet  village  street 
That  slumbered  in  the  noonday  heat. 

Men  went  about  their  ceaseless  toil 
To  tend  the  kine  and  till  the  soil, 
While  death,  who  came,  perhaps,  as  friend, 
Brought  this  brief  stewardship  to  an  end. 

There  stood  the  house  of  grief  behind 
The  shuttered  door  and  close-drawn  blind, 
And,  where  the  churchyard  grasses  wave, 
The  mourners  gathered  round  the  grave. 

They  put  her  small  belongings  by, 
The  needle  she  was  proud  to  ply, 
The  ciphering  book  that  bore  her  name, 
The  halfworked  sampler  in  its  frame. 


A  CHILD'S  EPITAPH 


Then  the  blank  outlook  :  days  that  came 
Of  life  the  same  yet  not  the  same  ; 
Day  after  day  that  seemed  to  wait, 
Empty  of  joys  and  desolate. 

Nay,  surely  through  our  distant  dream 
Diviner  hopes  of  comfort  gleam, 
And  memories  of  the  Master's  word 
Still  in  the  empty  nursery  heard  ; 

When  tears  were  dried,  perhaps,  for  some 
By  Him  who  bade  the  children  come, 
And  hearts  found  healing  in  the  touch 
Of  Him  whose  Kingdom  is  of  such. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  ST.  GOTHARD  TUNNEL 


BALLAD  OF  THE  ST.  GOTHARD  TUNNEL 

TO  leave  the  sombre  scene  behind, 
The  driving  mists  that  blur  the  view, 
And  issuing,  from  the  darkness,  find 
Skies  of  a  clear  and  cloudless  hue, 
Steeped  in  the  sunlight  of  the  South, 

Which  our  grim  North  may  never  know, 
From  grey  to  white,  from  shade  to  light, 
From  Goschenen  to  Airolo. 

From  city  crowds,  from  London  modes, 

To  Capri  cliff  or  Naples  bay, 
To  oxen  sauntering  with  their  loads 

Of  brushwood  down  the  Appian  way ; 
From  dingy  office,  noisy  court, 

To  linger  where  the  olives  grow, 
From  those  to  these,  from  toil  to  ease, 

From  Goschenen  to  Airolo. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  ST.  GOTHARD  TUNNEL 

And  soon — too  soon — for  jealous  Time 

Abates  no  tittle  of  his  powers, 
For  cloudy  land,  or  sunny  clime, 

For  working  days,  or  leisure  hours, 
Too  soon  his  measure  running  out 

Will  plunge  us  through  the  Alps  again, 
From  these  to  those,  from  verse  to  prose, 

From  Airolo  to  Goschenen. 

This  black  mysterious  place  of  gloom, 

Whose  either  end  is  light  and  shade, 
What  is  it  but  some  shaft  of  doom 

Where  human  destinies  are  laid  ? 
For  some  the  shadow,  some  the  sun, 

All  travellers  passing,  maids  and  men, 
From  Goschenen  to  Airolo, 

Or  Airolo  to  Goschenen. 


THE  DESERTER  17 


THE  DESERTER 

(WHO   REFUSES   FOR   THE    I2TH) 

HOW  now,  you  faithless  absentee, 
Now  that  the  magic  Hour  draws  near, 
You  urge  an  unexpected  plea 
Of  duller  claims  that  interfere  ! 

I  thought  no  mortal  since  the  Fall 
Gifted  with  strength  of  will  to  raise 

Ramparts  of  conscience  at  the  call     . 
Of  grouse  and  grilse  and  holidays. 

Review  it  all — the  rush  from  town, 
The  station  platform  stretching  far, 

The  crowds,  the  hurrying  up  and  down 
In  quest  of  the  Fort  William  car  ; 

And  that  first  moment  of  delight 
When  the  long  8.15  swings  forth, 

To  thunder  through  the  August  night, 
And  meet  the  daybreak  in  the  North. 
B 


i8  THE  DESERTER 


Until — how  great  the  prospect  seems  ! — 
The  faithful  George  beside  your  bed 

Shall  mingle  in  your  restless  dreams 
With  early  tea  at  Garelochhead. 

Ten  minutes  more  of  tea  and  train, 

And  hasty  donning  of  attire, 
And  then — and  then  your  feet  attain 

The  wayside  goal  of  your  desire. 

What  next  ?   much  baggage  vanned  and  racked 
Now  quickly  bundled  out  in  tons, 

And  then  the  waiting  motor  packed 
With  rods  and  cartridges  and  guns. 

I  picture  you  the  morning  grey, 

With  glint  of  sunshine  now  and  then, 

And  wonderful  with  scents  that  stray 
From  the  wet  larchwoods  in  the  glen. 

High  on  the  pass  the  breeze  is  cool, 

And  local  memories  return 
Of  salmon  in  the  Clachan  pool, 

And  grouse  above  the  Laraig  burn. 

So  be  it ;  stoutly  you  resist, 

But  wait  until  the  Hour  arrives, 
The  Hour  of  mountain,  moor  and  mist, 

And  see  if  your  resolve  survives. 


JOACHIM 


JOACHIM 

"\7EAR  after  year  he  came  with  spring, 
JL    With  lengthening  light  and  crocus  flower, 
But  now  no  April  days  may  bring 
His  matchless  music  back  an  hour. 

Masters  there  are  whose  work  will  live 

Upon  the  canvas  or  the  page, 
Though  they  themselves  be  gone,  to  give 

Enjoyment  to  a  later  age. 

But  here  and  now  the  world  must  grieve 

For  one  majestic  master-mind, 
Whose  art  will  die  with  him  and  leave 

Nothing  but  memories  behind. 

Well,  these  at  least  are  ours,  and  when 
Years  shall  the  great  tradition  dim, 

We  may  before  less  favoured  men 
Rejoice  to  have  rejoiced  in  him. 


LAZARUS 


LAZARUS 

["  REMEMBER  THAT  THOU  IN  THY  LIFETIME  RE- 
CEIVEDST  GOOD  THINGS,  AND  LIKEWISE  LAZARUS 
EVIL  THINGS  "] 

STILL  he  lingers,  where  wealth  and  fashion 
Meet  together  to  dine  or  play, 
Lingers — a  matter  of  vague  compassion — 

Out  in  the  darkness,  across  the  way  ; 
Out  beyond  the  light  and  the  glitter, 

And  the  warmth  where  luxury's  laughter  rings, 
Lazarus  waits — where  the  wind  is  bitter — 
Receiving  his  evil  things. 


Still  you  find  him,  when  blazing,  burning, 
Summer  flames  upon  square  and  street, 
And  the  fortunate  ones  of  the  earth  are  turning 

Their  thoughts  to  meadows  and  meadow-sweet ; 
For  far  away  from  the  wide  green  valley, 

And  the  bramble-patch  where  the  whitethroat 

sings, 
Lazarus  sweats  in  his  crowded  alley, 

Receiving  his  evil  things. 


LAZARUS 


And  all  the  while  from  a  thousand  rostrums 
Wise  men  talk  about  him  and  his  woes, 

Each  with  his  bundle  of  noisy  nostrums, 
Torn  to  tatters  'twixt  Ayes  and  Noes  ; 

Sage  and  Socialist,  gush  and  glamour, 
And  it's  little  relief  their  wisdom  brings, 

For  there's  nothing  for  him  out  of  all  the  clamour, 
Nothing  but  evil  things. 


Royal  Commissions,  creeds,  convictions, 
Learnedly  argue  and  write  and  speak, 

But  the  happy  issue  of  his  afflictions 
Lazarus  waits  for  it  week  by  week  ; 

Still  he  seeks  it  to-day,  to-morrow, 
With  purposeless  pavement  wanderings, 

Or  dreams  it,  a  huddled  heap  of  sorrow, 
Receiving  his  evil  things. 


And  some  will  tell  you  of  Evolution, 
With  Social  Science  thereto — and  some 

Look  forth  to  the  parable's  retribution, 

When  the  lot  is  changed  in  the  life  to  come  ; 

To  the  trumpet  sound,  and  the  great  awaking, 
And  to  One,  with  healing  upon  his  wings, 

In  the  House  of  the  many  mansions  making 
An  end  of  the  evil  things. 


LAZARUS 


In  the  name  of  Knowledge  the  world  grows  healthier, 
In  the  name  of  Freedom  the  world  grows  great, 

And  men  are  wiser,  and  men  are  wealthier, 
But — Lazarus  lies  at  the  rich  man's  gate  ; 

Lies  as  he  lay  through  human  history, 

Through  fame  of  heroes  and  pomp  of  kings, 

At  the  rich  man's  gate — an  abiding  mystery, 
Receiving  his  evil  things. 


LIFE'S  FAVOURITE  23 


LIFE'S  FAVOURITE 

T    IFE  she  loved  him,  she  seemed  the  slave, 
-I—*     Slave  of  his  lightest  and  least  desire, 
And  so  to  his  glorious  youth  she  gave 
Glory  that  youths  admire. 

Gifts  she  gave  him  of  strength  and  skill, 
Gave  him  lordship  of  teams  and  crews, 

With  the  Love  of  the  Game,  and,  better  still, 
Of  playing  it,  win  or  lose. 

An  Eton  spell  and  an  Oxford  spell, 
Lore  of  tradition  and  pride  of  shop, 

Worship  of  friends  that  spake  him  well, 
With  the  run  of  the  Club  and  Pop. 

All  good  pleasures  would  come  his  way, 
All  good  men  give  him  nod  for  nod  ; 

His  laugh  and  his  greeting  haunt  to-day 
Staircase  E  in  the  quad. 


24  LIFE'S  FAVOURITE 


Then  why  did  her  favours  end  so  soon, 

Did  she  forsake,  betray,  forget, 
When  she  sent  him  with  his  platoon 

Over  the  parapet  ? 

Was  it  because  he  shewed  her  praise 

In  his  glowing  self  that  the  thought  would  strike 
Of  vanished  charms  in  the  pleasureless  days, 

And  it  tortured  her,  lover-like  ? 

Or  was  she  moved  by  a  greater  thought, 
And  dealt  with  him  yet  as  friend  by  friend, 

In  bringing  the  wonderful  work  she  had  wrought 
To  its  only  possible  end  ? 


SIR  JOHN'S  TOMB  25 


SIR  JOHN'S  TOMB 
(IN  THE  SOUTH  TRANSEPT) 

HPHROUGH  the  Good  Shepherd  on  the  panes 
JL      The  level  sunlight  streams  and  stains 
With  splashes  of  bright  colour  thrown 
Old  Sir  John  Poynings  carved  in  stone. 

It  blazons  gorgeously  the  shield 
Which  once  he  bore  on  Bosworth  field, 
Two  Falcons  fettered — to  proclaim 
Across  the  years  his  fighting  fame. 

To  tell  how  boldly  he  withstood 

The  king's  advance  from  Sutton  wood, 

And  with  what  zeal  at  close  of  day 

He  chased  the  remnant  Loughborough  way. 

On  vizor  and  on  vambrace  glints 
A  network  of  amazing  tints, 
Barring  with  gold  and  crimson  bands 
The  gauntlets  on  his  praying  hands. 


26  SIR  JOHN'S  TOMB 


His  hands,  no  longer  raised,  as  when 
He  urged  his  ranks  of  fighting  men, 
No  longer  clenched  to  grip  and  ply 
Yon  doughty  hilt  against  his  thigh. 

Gallant  Sir  John — you  strove  and  fought, 
You  lived  and  loved,  and  rode  and  wrought, 
And  now — your  fights  and  labours  done, 
You  lie  there  praying  in  the  sun. 

Praying  for  what  ?  for  whom  ?  who  knows  ? 
God's  mercy  on  your  friends  or  foes, 
God's  mercy  on  yourself  may  be 
Your  never-ending  litany. 


THE  LAST  GROUSE 


THE  LAST  GROUSE 

S  the  last  grouse  of  autumn, 

Disturbed  on  the  hill, 
And  the  shouts  of  the  beaters 

Are  piercing  and  shrill : 
In  my  butt  I  await  him, 

Yet  nothing  espy 
Except  the  dark  moorland, 
Except  the  dark  sky. 

Oh  !  the  prospect  is  dreary, 

With  snow  on  the  ridge, 
And  weather  more  suited 

For  firelight  and  bridge  : 
On  the  wings  of  a  blizzard. 

With  black  clouds  behind, 
The  last  grouse  of  autumn 

Comes  whirring  down  wind. 


28  THE  LAST  GROUSE 

Time  was  when  in  August 

He  rose  from  my  boot, 
And  gave  me  an  instant, 

Though  I  missed  him,  to  shoot 
But  now,  a  tough  veteran, 

All  whipcord  and  wire, 
He's  a  speck  far  to  leeward 

Before  I  can  fire. 

Ill  not  hit  thee,  thou  last  one, 

So  swift  and  so  tough, 
Even  granting  I  see  thee, 

Which  is  doubtful  enough  : 
Thus  vainly  I  scatter 

My  pellets  like  hail 
At  what  I  conclude  is 

Thy  vanishing  tail. 


D1S  A  LITER  29 


DIS  ALITER 

(ON  A  LEADER  WHO  DIED  A  FEW  DAYS  BEFORE  THE 
GENERAL  ELECTION   OF 


TN  crisis  of  revolt  and  raid 

How  were  the  Border  hosts  dismayed, 
When  from  the  field  the  word  was  told 
That  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold. 


As  once  rebellion  bowed  her  head 
At  tidings  of  her  Champion  dead, 
So  now,  five  centuries  after,  Fate 
Sends  a  like  sorrow  to  the  State. 

Mysteries  of  death  that  no  man  knows, 
The  broken  hope — the  sudden  close 
Decreed  for  intellect  and  powers 
By  Him  whose  ways  are  not  as  ours. 

Our  milder  age  beholds  the  lists 
Crowded  with  keen  antagonists, 
And  hears  the  sound  of  battle  rolled, 
But — Harry  Percy's  spur  is  cold. 


30  I  PUBLISH  THE  BANNS 


I  PUBLISH  THE  BANNS 

ABOVE  the  rector's  desk  appears 
The  rusty  little  book  of  banns, 
From  which  he  has,  these  forty  years, 
Announced  our  matrimonial  plans. 

"  Ye  must  declare  it."     Even  so. 

There  follows  an  inviting  pause, 
While  we  are  pondering  if  we  know 

A  just  impediment  or  cause, 

"  Why  these  two  persons  "  should  not  face 
The  hidden  future  hand  in  hand  ; 

Why  they  should  not  together  trace 
That  path  which  none  may  understand. 

Yet,  if  with  us  the  burden  rest 

Of  pledging  these  unknown  events, 

Prophetic  prudence  might  suggest 
A  thousand  just  impediments. 


/  PUBLISH  THE  BANNS  31 

How  shall  our  ignorance  aspire 

To  guarantee  the  fervent  vows, 
The  whispers  heard  in  lane  or  byre, 

By  the  dog-roses  or  the  cows  ? 

Can  we  conjecture,  you  and  I, 

How  he  and  she  will  play  their  parts  ? 

Our  mute  assent  may  ratify 
Some  tragedy  of  broken  hearts. 

Young  man  and  maid  !     I  wake  at  last 

From  fancies  profitless  and  dim, 
To  find  our  simple  ritual  passed 

From  chant  to  prayer,  from  prayer  to  hymn . 

What  do  they  sing  ?     I  scan  in  vain 
The  work,  whereas  for  him  and  her 

He  may  have  made  the  meaning  plain, 
Who  is  His  own  interpreter. 


AFTER  THE  HOLIDAYS 


AFTER  THE  HOLIDAYS 

MINDFUL  of  pleasure  past  that  makes 
His  durance  harder  far, 
Your  votary  of  commerce  takes 

His  way  past  Temple  Bar  ; 
And  in  his  dingy  chair  he  sits 

Beneath  a  leaden  sky, 
Prepared  to  match  his  wandering  wits 
With  them  that  sell  and  buy. 

The  office  boys  come  peering  in, 

The  clerks  pass  to  and  fro, 
And  a  great  money-making  din 

Roars  in  the  street  below  ; 
Yet  let  him  toss  aside  his  quill, 

And  all  this  noise  is  mute, 
And  he  himself  an  idler  still 

Beside  the  Kyles  of  Bute. 


AFTER  THE  HOLIDAYS  33 

For  a  clear  west  wind  pipes  and  blows 

With,  magic  from  the  moors, 
Scattering  these  uninviting  rows 

Of  chimneys,  flats,  and  floors, 
Scattering,  like  leaves  upon  the  lea, 

Dull  invoice,  bill,  and  bond, 
And  bringing  back  a  silver  sea 

With  purple  hills  beyond. 

Yonder's  the  summit  of  Goatfell, 

And  here  distinct  and  clear 
The  Edith  tossing  in  the  swell 

Off  Auchenlochan  Pier  : 
Then,  while  you  watch,  away  she  swings, 

And  round  the  point  she  ploughs 
Against  a  lively  breeze  that  flings 

The  spray  across  her  bows. 

But  the  sun  sets  :  the  wind's  asleep, 

And  Donald  twists  the  bait, 
For  which  full  twenty  fathom  deep 

The  greedy  whiting  wait ; 
Or,  last  excitement  of  the  night, 

You  hear  a  distant  sound, 
And  watch  the  evening  steamer's  light 

Pass  onward,  Arran-bound. 


34  TO  ELINOR 


TO  ELINOR 
(TYING  HER  SHOE) 

A   SERIOUS  thing  it  well  may  be 
**     When  shoestrings  fall  untimely  free  : 
At  five  years  old  much  effort  goes 
To  readjust  them  into  bows  ; 
I  note  the  mental  concentration 
Demanded  by  the  operation, 
And  understand  it — we  are  found, 
Uncle  and  niece,  on  common  ground. 

Take  comfort ;  Time,  for  all  his  power, 
Permits  an  intermediate  hour, 
An  hour  of  careless  hearts  and  blithe, 
An  hour  of  lissom  limbs  and  lithe, 
When  fuller  youth  at  last  awakes 
To  that  activity,  which  makes 
Feats  like  the  tying  of  a  lace 
Comparatively  commonplace. 


TO  ELINOR  3S 


Across  that  interval  which  lies 
Between  us,  let  me  sympathise  ; 
I  too,  regard  with  deep  respect 
The  process,  while  I  recollect 
My  apoplectic  zeal  that  bends 
Breathless  to  those  disordered  ends. 
Small  nieces  and  stout  uncles  too 
Know  what  it  means  to  tie  a  shoe. 


36  THE  PIONEER 


THE  PIONEER 
(GEORGE  GREY,  FEBRUARY  3,  1911) 

HE  heard  the  call  of  the  wider  spaces, 
The  voice  of  the  lonely  land, 
And  his  work  was  done  in  untrodden  places, 
Where  he  held  his  life  in  his  hand. 

In  savage  regions  of  blood  and  slavery, 

In  haunts  of  horror  and  fear, 
He  carried  the  flag  with  a  stedfast  bravery, 

A  resolute  pioneer. 

With  the  wild,  and  the  peril  that  lies  behind  it, 

He  gripped  in  a  lifelong  feud, 
To  find  it  at  last — as  all  men  find  it — 

Beaten  but  unsubdued. 

So  died  as  he  lived — when  the  desert  vastness, 

That  waited  the  destined  day, 
Sent  forth  its  vengeance  out  of  the  fastness, 

Vengeance  to  strike  and  slay. 


AT  QUEEN'S  CLUB  37 


AT  QUEEN'S  CLUB 
(DECEMBER  ISTH,  1902) 

"  Some  ...  who  remember  every  Rugby  match  since 
eighty  something.'* 

Oxford  Magazine. 

TT  hints  at  a  failing  mind's  obliquity, 
•*•     An  effervescence  of  senile  blood. 

Eighty  something  \  a  dim  antiquity, 
Was  it  before  or  since  the  flood  ? 

Surely  the  Ark  was  but  just  put  by, 

And  the  base  of  Ararat  hardly  dry. 

Yet  some  of  us,  laeti  nostra  sorte, 

Till  the  appalling  truth  was  told, 
Some  on  the  hither  side  of  forty 

Hadn't  considered  ourselves  so  old  ; 
A  fond  delusion,  which  only  proves 
That  the  prime  of  life,  as  you  reach  it,  moves. 


3*  AT  QUEEN'S  CLUB 

Dates  don't  lie  :  it  was  sentiment  blinded  us 
To  the  number  of  years  that  had  slipped  away, 

Made  us  fancy  (till  you  reminded  us) 
Eighty  something  was  yesterday  : 

Kept  in  our  memory,  clear  and  plain, 

Rugby  fights  of  the  Vassall  reign. 

When  we  worshipped  the  azure  image, 
Filled  the  air  with  our  jubilant  hoots, 

Or  rolled  in  the  path  of  the  rushing  scrimmage, 
And  picked  the  ball  from  the  trampling  boots  ; 

Venturing  deeds  which,  we  quite  allow, 

We  certainly  should  not  venture  now. 

Now,  as  we  lingered,  like  Tithonus, 
Musing  over  our  shipwrecked  hopes, 

In  the  arena  that  once  had  known  us, 
There  was  young  Oxford  round  the  ropes  ; 

And  it  seemed  to  ourselves  that  we  were  there, 

Not  as  we  are,  but  as  we  were. 

There  were  the  heroes  of  club  and  college, 

Ruddy  faces  and  lips  agape, 
Keen  eyes  searching  the  Tree  of  Knowledge, 

The  thistle  for  fig,  and  the  thorn  for  grape  : 
Marvellous  boys,  for  the  part  arrayed, 
Cast  for  the  drama  that  once  we  played. 


AT  QUEEN'S  CLUB  39 

In  the  pageant  of  Youth  that  never  varies, 

Winding  its  way  along  the  High, 
Under  the  shadow  of  old  St.  Mary's 

Freshmen  and  fourth-year  men  go  by  ; 
Sinner  and  Saint,  a  mingled  throng, 
Bounder  and  Blue — they  pass  along. 

Scanty  the  solace,  but  indisputable, 

Puppets  that  dance  at  the  footlights  we  ; 

The  players  change,  but  the  play's  immutable, 
And  what  are  the  odds  who  the  players  be  ? 

Eighty  something  I  a  year  or  two  ; 

What  does  it  matter — we  or  you  ? 


FROM  AIX  TO  ARGYLL 


FROM  AIX  TO  ARGYLL 

FOR  me — the  wanderer — to  enjoy 
The  silver  sunlight  of  Savoy  ; 
For  you  to  watch  the  rain  that  nils 
The  burns  on  your  Argyllshire  hills. 

For  me  the  landscape's  dazzling  hue 
Beneath  a  sky  of  turquoise  blue  ; 
For  you  grey  mists  that  shroud  the  plain. 
And  hide  Ben  Vorlich  or  Ben  Vane. 

For  me  the  idle  crowd  that  shews 
Parisian  frills  and  furbelows  ; 
For  you,  to  serve  the  moorland's  need, 
The  hob-nailed  shoe,  the  skirt  of  tweed. 

For  me  the  band  that  bleats  and  blares 
Its  medley  of  enticing  airs  ; 
For  you  the  wailing  pipes  that  bring 
Old  memories  of  an  exiled  king. 


FROM  AIX  TO  ARGYLL  41 

For  me  to  lose  my  humble  franc, 

Or  more,  at  the  casino  bank  ; 

For  you  to  land  and  not  to  lose 

Grilse  or  sea-trout,  as  Luck  may  choose. 

Quot  homines — the  poet  explains  ; 
Here  pleasure  at  her  gayest  reigns, 
And  yet  what  would  I  give  to  stand 
And  play  your  gillie,  gaif  in  hand  ? 


TO  A  ROUNDHEAD 


TO  A  ROUNDHEAD 

(UPON   THE   29TH   OF   MAY) 

LIKE  one  who  fought  in  Rupert's  van, 
A  merry  cavalier,  I  flout  you, 
Who  come,  you  blue-eyed  puritan, 

Without  a  sprig  of  oak  about  you. 
What  !  you  are  all  for  Oliver, 

And  still  remember  disappointed 
Those  leaves  that  in  the  wind  astir 

So  timely  screened  the  Lord's  Anointed. 

Perhaps  my  monarch  to  your  mind 

Seems  over-reckless  and  convivial ; 
Perhaps  your  wisdom  fails  to  find 

Leisure  for  memories  half  so  trivial : 
Your  sex  that  wearies  for  the  moon 

Awakes  to  such  a  sober  playtime, 
And  busied  with  a  serious  June 

Forgets  a  legendary  Maytime. 


TO  A  ROUNDHEAD  43 

Or  else  the  earliest  flush  of  dawn 

This  famous  morning  would  have  found  you 
Afoot  upon  the  dewy  lawn 

With  thrushes  in  the  laurels  round  you, 
Whose  notes  you  rivalled  bold  and  free 

With  songs  of  Carolean  flavour, 
The  while  you  sought  a  proper  tree 

And  plucked  yourself  a  kingly  favour. 


44  BALLADE  OF  BIRDS'-NESTING 


BALLADE  OF  BIRDS'-NESTING 
(TO  G.  N.) 


you  on  sunny  morns  of  May, 
To  you,  with  zeal  and  skill  combined, 
Are  given,  where'er  our  footsteps  stray, 
Discoveries  of  the  choicer  kind  : 
While  I,  in  knowledge  far  behind, 
As  I  confess  with  conscious  blushes, 
To  modest  exploits  am  resigned  — 
Blackbirds  and  chaffinches  and  thrushes. 

For  you  the  pipit  in  the  brae, 

To  cheat  all  eyes  but  yours  designed  ; 
The  long-tailed  tit  upon  the  spray, 

The  creeper  in  the  pollard's  rind  ; 

The  water-ouzel,  moss-entwined, 
Where  down  the  rocks  the  streamlet  gushes, 

For  me,  as  through  the  woods  we  wind, 
Blackbirds  and  chaffinches  and  thrushes. 


BALLADE  OF  BIRDS'-NESTING 


Yet  spots  I  light  on  by  the  way 

Well  suited  to  the  nesting  mind, 
Whose  fitness  might  be,  one  would  say, 

By  some  observant  bird  divined  ; 

Secluded  hollows,  bracken-lined, 
Inviting  alcoves  in  the  rushes  ; 

But  in  the  end  I  only  find 
Blackbirds  and  chaffinches  and  thrushes. 

ENVOY 

The  gifts  of  Fate  are  well  defined, 

To  those  that  have,  the  luck  that  crushes, 

To  others,  inexpert  and  blind, 

Blackbirds  and  chaffinches  and  thrushes. 


THE  DEAD  CHIEF 


THE  DEAD  CHIEF 

(A.  N.,  OCTOBER  22ND,  IQI5) 

/""^HIEF  of  the  House,  our  tragic  day 
^-^     Of  death  in  youth  and  broken  powers 
Sees  your  long  life  of  service  pay 
Its  debt  to  the  consuming  hours. 


The  Old  Order  changes  ;  at  the  last 
It  seemed  to  us  an  epoch  died, 

As  that  slow  solemn  pageant  passed 
Along  the  autumn  riverside. 


THE  OLD  GAMEKEEPER  47- 


THE  OLD  GAMEKEEPER 

IN  actual  years  I  understand 
That  he  is  turned  of  sixty-seven, 
His  rugged  brows  are  seamed  and  tanned 
With  all  the  winds  and  suns  of  heaven  ; 
Yet,  though  about  his  beard  and  hair 

Old  Time  has  scattered  snow  in  plenty, 
He  fronts  you  with  a  stalwart  air, 
As  upright  as  a  lad  of  twenty. 


A  patriarch  this  of  gun  and  rod, 

Of  gaff  and  fly,  of  fur  and  feather, 
Who  upon  fifty  Twelfths  has  trod 

With  Don  and  Rambler  through  the  heather  : 
Who  as  a  round-eyed  urchin  stared 

At  older  squires  in  strange  apparel, 
And  can  recall  the  present  laird 

A  novice  with  a  single  barrel. 


4$  THE  OLD  GAMEKEEPER 

Year  in,  year  out,  his  lot  is  cast 

In  none  but  outdoor  occupation  ; 
Before  his  patient  eyes  goes  past 

The  changeless  pageant  of  creation  ; 
Year  out,  year  in,  the  garnered  sheaf, 

The  frost-bound  earth,  the  April  shower, 
The  mystery  of  the  bursting  leaf, 

The  nesting  thrush,  the  budding  flower. 


On  many  a  fragrant  night  of  May, 

All  silver-white  in  moonlit  beauty, 
He  waits  and  watches  till  the  day, 

A  patient  devotee  of  duty  ; 
While  past  the  pines  the  brown  owl  swoops, 

With  silent  wings  and  ghostly  sailings, 
He  stands  to  guard  the  pheasant  coops, 

His  back  against  the  spinney  railings. 


A  more  romantic  sentry  might, 

On  some  delightful  revel  chancing, 
Have  seen  in  the  soft  summer  night 

Great  Pan  amid  his  Dryads  dancing  ; 
But  his  calm  wits  would  not  expect 

So  false  and  pagan  an  imago, 
While  he  is  wondering  what  effect 

The  dew  will  have  on  his  lumbago. 


THE  OLD  GAMEKEEPER 


In  days  when  courtesy  is  dim, 

And  speech  grown  less  polite  and  plainer, 
You  never  fail  to  find  in  him, 

The  deference  of  the  old  retainer  ; 
He  speaks  about  the  crops  and  birds, 

About  the  weather  and  the  stubbles, 
With  some  apologetic  words 

Of  stiffness  and  rheumatic  troubles. 


With  here  and  there  a  humorous  touch, 

Of  which  you  catch  a  distant  inkling, 
And  guess  that  it  is  meant  as  such 

Because  his  honest  eyes  are  twinkling  ; 
Then  back  to  more  professional  ground, 

To  beats  and  spaniels,  guns  and  setters, 
As  if  herein  alone  he  found 

Fit  conversation  for  his  betters. 


Yet  among  more  familiar  friends, 

With  nothing  to  suggest  disparity, 
Rumour  reports  that  he  unbends 

To  prodigies  of  jocularity  ; 
Nay,  when  the  reels  and  jigs  begin, 

At  Hallowe'en  or  Twelfth  Night  party, 
Upon  an  ancient  violin 

He  scrapes,  a  self-taught  Sarasate. 


So  THE  OLD  GAMEKEEPER 

Exciting  stories,  too,  he  tells, 

Great  feats  of  memory  or  invention, 
And  round  the  dying  fire  compels 

The  listening  harness-room's  attention  ; 
With  moving  anecdotes  of  sport, 

Of  midnight  raid  and  poaching  battle, 
Or  else,  the  more  exciting  sort, 

Of  ghosts  that  walk  and  chains  that  rattle. 


I  wonder  if  we  joined  the  crowd 

If  he  would  pardon  our  intrusion, 
Would  he  continue  and  be  proud, 

Or  would  we  fill  him  with  confusion  ? 
I  dare  not  risk  it :  I  must  be 

His  comrade  through  the  heather  plodding, 
To  whom  it  is  not  given  to  see 

This  Homer  of  the  gun-room  nodding. 


A  BALLAD  OF  LABELS  51 


A  BALLAD  OF  LABELS 
(FROM  LONDON) 

DAME  FASHION,  when  she  calls  the  tune, 
Must  surely  crave  my  pardon 
For  prisoning  me  in  leafy  June 
Far  from  my  Alpine  garden  ; 

So  that  in  crowded  square  or  street 

My  Fancy's  playful  mockery 
Plants  all  the  pavement  at  my  feet 

With  treasures  from  the  rockery  ; 

And  so  that,  heedless  to  the  claims 

Of  passing  conversation, 
I  murmur  to  myself  their  names 

By  way  of  consolation. 

The  thread  of  compliment  may  run 
Through  many  ball-room  Babels, 

I  have  one  language,  only  one, 
The  language  of  the  Labels. 


A  BALLAD  OF  LABELS 


In  Kedar's  tents  are  festive  hours, 

The  nodes  and  the  coenae, 
My  heart  is  where  |  RED  ADMIRAL  |  flowers, 

And  crimson-starred  |  SILENE.  [ 

In  box  or  stall  on  opera  nights 

Between  each  thrilling  scene  I 
Recall  the  miniature  delights 

Of       MENTHA  REQUIENI.  1 


Admirers  find  me  deaf  and  dumb 
To  all  their  honeyed  wheedlings  ; 

I  muse  on  |  LONGIFQLIUM,  | 
On  sedums  and  on  seedlings. 


And  when  they  come  to  hint  their  loves 
Through  all  the  usual  stages, 

I  wish  I  were  in  gardening  gloves 
Among  my  saxifrages. 


THE  GUIDE  BOOK  S3 


THE  GUIDE  BOOK 

COME  forth,  and  brave  our  Northern  sky, 
Old  comrade  of  the  travelled  ways, 
For  'twixt  your  battered  covers  lie, 
On  pages  scored  with  note  and  phrase, 
The  memories  of  enchanted  days. 

Your  legend,  while  our  grey  fogs  drift, 
And  while  our  angry  sunsets  frown, 

Can,  like  Aladdin's  carpet,  lift 

The  dreamer  up,  and  set  him  down 
In  Lombard  plain  or  Tuscan  town. 

Where  shall  we  wander  ?     Where  abide  ? 

Somewhere  with  olive  and  with  vine, 
By  Tiber  or  by  Arno  side, 

By  Mark's  or  Miniato's  shrine, 

On  Pincian  or  on  Palatine  ? 

Lead  us  through  churches,  those  and  these, 
The  Fountains,  where  the  silence  falls 

Among  the  eucalyptus  trees  ; 
Show  us  St.  Peter's  or  St.  Paul's, 
In  Fetters  or  Without  the  Walls. 


THE  GUIDE  BOOK 


Come  where  Benozzo  Gozzoli 
Makes  the  Riccardi  chapel  glow 

With  ranks  of  gorgeous  Medici, 

Or  where  the  convent  cloisters  show 
Visions  of  Fra  Angelico. 

Or  where  the  Adriatic  wave, 

The  tideway  of  the  Sea-queen's  power, 

Still  murmurs  round  her  earliest  grave, 
And  chants  her  requiem  hour  by  hour 
Beneath  Torcello's  lonely  tower. 

With  you  in  hand  we  turn  to  trace 
Once  more  the  Doge's  gloomy  state, 

We  feed  the  pigeons  in  the  Place, 
And  board  the  gondolas  that  wait, 
Black  shadows  at  the  palace  gate. 

Back  to  your  shelf  :  on  many  a  night 
You  bring  for  him  who  sits  at  home 

Your  Odyssey  of  sound  and  sight  — 
Bargello,  Forum,  arch  and  dome  — 
From  Milan,  Venice,  Florence,  Rome. 


TO  MARJOR1E 


TO  MARJORIE 
(AT  CHRISTMAS,  WITH  THE  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome) 

r~P*O  you,  a  poetess  yourself, 
J-       A  proper  claim  belongs 
To  treasure  on  your  schoolroom  shelf 
This  book  of  classic  songs. 

For  had  you  lived  in  days  of  old 
You  would  have  joined  the  fray, 

And  on  the  bridge  have  helped  to  hold 
Lars  Porsena  at  bay. 

Indeed  I  seem  to  see  in  you, 

Child  of  our  modern  time, 
Sparks  of  the  fire  that  glitter  through 

These  glories  told  in  rhyme. 

Oh,  may  no  coming  Christmas  dull 

The  flame  that  in  you  glows  ! 
Fancies  are  for  the  fanciful, 

When  all  the  rest  is  prose. 


TO  MARJORIE 


And  when  the  iron  facts  of  lif e 

Are  hard  to  understand, 
May  you  find  solace  after  strife 

In  some  enchanted  land  ! 

For  recollect  that  only  they 

May  see  the  Fairies  dance, 
Who  swing  to  light  them  on  their  way 

The  lanthorn  of  Romance. 


THE  SWALLOWS  57 


THE  SWALLOWS 
(EARLY  AVIATION  DAYS,  1910) 

OUR  burnished  pinions  flash  like  steel, 
As  round  your  chimney  stacks  we  wheel, 

Home-comers  on  the  wing  again  ; 
We  who  have  heard  on  Libyan  sands, 
Across  the  seas,  across  the  lands, 

The  summons  of  the  spring  again. 

So  league  by  league,  and  day  by  day, 
We  praised  upon  our  homeward  way. 

The  Master  who  created  us, 
Till  at  the  last  beyond  the  miles 
We  found  the  welcome  ridge  of  tiles, 

Or  mossy  thatch  that  waited  us. 

Yet  as  our  flying  myriads  drew 
Towards  the  journey's  end  we  knew 

That  something  had  excited  you, 
And,  circling  over  square  and  street, 
We  wondered  what  surprising  feat 

Had  startled  and  delighted  you 


THE  SWALLOWS 


Think  of  it  !     All  the  joyful  cries, 
That  seem  to  shake  the  April  skies, 

And  make  the  budding  branches  stir, 
Are  tributes  to  a  man's  renown, 
Who  flew — who  flew  from  London  town 

As  far — as  far  as  Manchester. 


THE  BLESSING  OF  ESAU 


THE  BLESSING  OF  ESAU 

'~pHE  Triumph  is  his  for  evermore,  who  knew  that 
-A.      mine  eyes  were  dim, 
So  came  in  his  brother's  place  and  bore  the  Blessing 

away  with  him ; 
While  you,  you  must  forth  to  the  desert  plain,  to  live 

by  the  share  or  the  sword, 
And  to  reckon  the  man  with  the  scheming  brain  for 

ever  as  king  and  lord. 

I  gave  him  the  Town — the  Town — for  his  prize,  the 
shop  and  street  for  his  dream, 

The  pavement  stones  for  his  Paradise,  and  a  con- 
quering self-esteem, 

In  the  mart,  I  said,  he  shall  fill  his  purse,  he  shall 
sit  where  the  mighty  sit, 

To  dominate  you — and  the  Universe — with  his  words 
and  his  wealth  and  his  wit. 


60  THE  BLESSING  OF  ESAU 

I  gave  him  for  ever  the  loot,  the  luck,  the  verdict 

at  each  appeal, 
The  vantage  in  every  bargain  struck,  the  aces  in 

every  deal ; 
For  you  may  be  strong,  and  he  may  be  weak,  and 

fiercely  your  wrath  may  burn, 
But  he'll  keep  his  cunning  tongue  in  his  cheek  and 

best  you  at  every  turn. 

With  this  for  the  riddle  of  all  your  toil — that  spite 

of  the  lies  he  said. 
For  him  you  shall  delve  the  kindly  soil  in  the  quest 

of  his  daily  bread  ; 
Seed-time  and  harvest  you  shall  see,  and  garner  the 

gifts  they  give, 
For  you  must  labour  that  you  and  he,  the  fool  and 

the  knave,  may  live. 


And  now,   of   your   Blessing  and   Birthright   reft 

through  all  the  uncounted  years, 
Is  there  never  a  place  of  repentance  left,  though 

carefully  sought  with  tears  ? 
Yea,  I  pledge  you  this,  as  the  days  go  by,  I  will 

torture  his  crafty  heart 
With  a  lingering  doubt  that  shall  never  die,  whether 

his  be  the  better  part. 


THE  BLESSING  OF  ESAU  61 

In  his  pomp  and  pride  he  shall  feel  the  touch,  the 

touch  of  the  magic  earth, 
And  shall  tremble  to  ask  himself  how  much  his  prize 

and  his  plots  be  worth  ; 
On  some  spring  evening  of  cloud  and  shine,  with 

catkins  grey  on  the  bough, 
With  homing  rooks  on  the  sunset  line,  and  plovers' 

nests  in  the  plough. 

He  shall  envy  you  who  far  from  the  street  can  watch 

the  seasons  pass, 
Can  watch  the  whiteness  come  to  the  wheat,  the 

greenness  come  to  the  grass, 
The  summer  here  and  the  winter  gone,  fulfilling  the 

steadfast  plan, 
Foretold   by  the  bow  in  the  clouds,  whereon  is 

builded  the  Life  of  Man. 


Aye,  then  let  him  sit  and  twirl  his  thumbs,  and 

think,  if  but  for  the  time, 
Of  the  Town  he  built,  with  her  reeking  slums,  and 

her  squalor  of  tears  and  crime, 
Let  him  catch  the  breath  of  the  April  night,  and  I 

wager  that  he  shall  wish 
In  his  inmost  heart  he  had  not  been  quite  so  prompt 

with  the  venison  dish. 


62  A  LAODICEAN 


A  LAODICEAN 

(THE  DEBATE  ON  THE  MOTION — '  THAT  THIS  HOUSE 
APPROVES  .  .  .') 

'  '  I  ^HIS  House  approves  .  .  .' — from  start 
•*-      to  close 

The  motion  struggles  on  ; 
Tossed  like  a  ball  from  friends  to  foes 

With  violent  pro  and  con, 
Amid  the  clash  of  arguments, 

Which,  based  on  fact  or  fiction, 
Appear  to  show  at  all  events 
A  wealth  of  stern  conviction. 


Surely,  I  said,  the  promise  lies 

Here  of  that  happy  man, 
Who,  when  divided  counsels  rise, 

Blooms  forth  a  partisan  ; 
Who  bends  the  weak  ones  to  his  yoke, 

And  tramps  the  King's  Dominions, 
To  pass  the  word  to  feeble  folk 

Who  halt  between  opinions. 


A  LAODICEAN  6? 


Yet  is  it  so  ?     Time  was  when  I 

Would  join  in  the  debate, 
Prepared  a  nostrum  to  supply 

For  all  that  ailed  the  State. 
Existence  could  no  problem  show 

Too  tough  for  my  digestion  ; 
I  brought  a  stalwart  Yes  or  No 

To  bear  on  every  question. 


I  marvel  now  to  think  I  earned 

My  schoolfellows'  applause 
By  floods  of  fervent  rhetoric  turned 

Upon  the  Irish  cause  ; 
To  think  I  rose,  inflamed,  incensed, 

And  made  a  fierce  oration 
For — or  it  may  have  been  against — 

Directness  of  taxation. 


With  dogmas  builded  on  a  rock, 

The  most  convinced  of  seers, 
I  strove,  a  second  Fawkes,  to  knock 

To  bits  the  House  of  Peers  ; 
In  fact,  whenever  questions  shook 

The  public,  right  or  wrongly, 
In  less  than  half  an  hour  I  took 

A  side — and  took  it  strongly. 


A  LAODICEAN 


According  to  my  youthful  lights 

I  launched  a  vigorous  creed, 
And  rose  to  more  egregious  heights 

When  others  disagreed  ; 
Prone  to  asseverate  and  assert, 

Convinced  and  contumacious, 
I  did  my  utmost  to  convert 

The  world,  like  Athanasius. 


Ah,  there  was  then  an  open  road 

To  follow  or  forsake, 
Before  the  wider  landscape  showed 

So  many  paths  to  take  ; 
Before  the  mind  of  middle  life, 

More  supine  or  more  supple, 
Saw  twenty  aspects  of  the  strife, 

Where  there  were  once  a  couple. 


Now  with  a  conscientious  care 

I  grope  towards  the  light, 
And  various  verdicts  I  compare, 

Which  cannot  all  be  right, 
Until,  when  just  about  to  take 

My  choice  amid  confusion, 
I  find  new  arguments  which  make 

For  quite  a  new  conclusion. 


A  LAODICEAN  63 


What  then  ?     If  everywhere  I  see 

Facts  which  refuse  to  budge, 
I  care  not :  nobody  made  me 

A  ruler  or  a  judge. 
These  conflicts  of  the  worst  and  best 

May  leave  mankind  divided, 
While  I  may  scan  their  struggling  quest 

Unmoved  and  undecided. 


66  QUEEN  ANNE 


QUEEN  ANNE 

(A  CONTEMPORARY   LAMENT) 

QUEEN  ANNE  is  dead.     The  final  page 
Is  writ  of  our  Augustan  age  ; 
An  age  of  great  things  dreamed  and  done, 
Of  victories  by  great  captains  won, 
With  milder  triumphs  counted  dear 
By  partisan  and  pamphleteer  ; 
An  age  adorned  with  hoop  and  patch 
With  pink  brocade  and  silks  to  match  ; 
When  beauty  babbled  half  the  day 
About  the  teacups  and  the  tray  ; 
Or  in  the  Mall  the  linkmen  ran 
Before  her  ladyship's  sedan  ! 
Put  out  the  lights — the  word  is  said — 
Put  up  the  cards — Queen  Anne  is  dead. 

We  yield  our  age  to  Time  in  trust 
To  guard  when  we  ourselves  be  dust ; 
Our  gleaming  tankards  shall  be  set 
In  some  collector's  cabinet ; 


QUEEN  ANNE  67 


Our  ruddy  brickwork,  sunset-fired, 

Shall  be  of  every  man  admired  ; 

Our  tall  sash  windows  greet  the  dawn 

On  formal  plot  and  misty  lawn. 

While  this  our  closing  phrase  shall  be 

An  oft-told  tale's  epitome, 

Attesting  as  the  years  advance 

Its  own  far-of£  significance, 

When  first  the  fateful  message  sped 

That  meant  so  much — Queen  Anne  is  dead. 


68  THE  LITTLE  HORSES 


THE  LITTLE  HORSES 
(AT  THE  CASINO) 

JltfARQUEZ  votre  jeu,  the  croupiers  shout 

With  one  seductive  voice  ; 
They  turn  the  metal  steeds  about, 

And  bid  you  take  your  choice. 
Which  shall  it  be  ?   le  neuf  ?   le  sept  ? 

Behold  them  in  a  row, 
And  name  the  horse  on  which  to  bet 

Your  franc — at  p'tits  chevaux. 

Le  jeu  est  fait — they  start  the  race, 

And  round  the  coursers  spin  ; 
They  circle  at  a  rousing  pace, 

These  thoroughbreds  of  tin  ; 
While  round  them  a  prophetic  hum 

Sways  softly  to  and  fro, 
Some  think  le  deux  will  win,  and  some 

Le  quatre — at  p'tits  chevaux. 


THE  LITTLE  HORSES  69 

Rien  ne  va  plus — '  tis  almost  done, 

But  two  or  three  survive  ; 
Le  cinq  est  passe,  murmurs  one, 

Of  too-ambitious  five  : 
And,  while  some  travel  far  too  fast, 

Some  tarry  much  too  slow, 
One  stops  precisely  right  at  last, 

And  wins — at  p'tits  chevaux. 

Come,  the  conventional  moral  read 

Upon  your  own  account ; 
Not  too  much  or  too  little  speed, 

But  just  the  right  amount : 
The  knowledge  that  experience  brings 

Of  just  how  far  to  go, 
Will  spell  success  at  other  things     . 

As  well  as  p'tits  chevaux. 


70  DIANA  OF  THE  EPHESIANS 


DIANA  OF  THE  EPHESIANS 

HOUR  after  hour,  when  the  tidings  came, 
They  called  on  the  great  Diana's  name  ; 
A  loud  and  a  long  defence  they  made 
Of  a  threatened  creed,  and  a  threatened  trade, 
Of  the  faith  that  their  fathers  knew  and  taught, 
And  the  craft  that  was  like  to  be  brought  to  naught ; 
New  faiths,  new  crafts,  new  creeds  may  be, 
But  Great  is  Diana — Great  is  she. 


So  is  it  yet,  when  the  old  things  pass, 

As  the  sands  run  down,  run  down  in  the  glass  ; 

Still  in  the  forefront,  still  with  us, 

Are  the  noisy  zealots  from  Ephesus, 

The  men  who  would  check  Advancement's  pace 

By  a  series  of  shouts  in  the  market-place, 

The  men  who  stand  in  the  ancient  ways. 

Loudly  singing  Diana's  praise. 


DIANA  OF  THE  EPHESIANS  7/ 

Your  iron  steeds  through  the  cutting  scream, 
But  where  is  the  Highflyer's  famous  team  ? 
In  an  idle  column  the  hansoms  stand, 
While  your  taxi  whizzes  you  down  the  Strand  ; 
And  everywhere,  always,  beside  the  way 
Lies  the  worn-out  wisdom  of  yesterday, 
The  craftsmen  who  laboured  and  lived  in  state, 
In  days  when  Diana  was  reckoned  great. 


O  Catos,  fighting  at  hopeless  odds 
Against  the  causes  that  please  the  Gods, 
In  vain,  hi  vain  through  the  streets  you  cry 
Your  images  nobody  wants  to  buy  ; 
In  vain  you  chant  to  the  heedless  earth 
Of  Diana's  power  and  Diana's  worth, 
For  the  movement  follows  the  usual  lines, 
And  there's  no  more  money  in  silver  shrines. 


72  PILOT 


PILOT 

GREY-MUZZLED  comrade  of  so  many  shoots, 
You  nose  your  placid  way  among  the  roots, 
And  lay  the  gathered  quarry  at  my  boots. 

To  think  that  years  ago  they  called  you  wild, 
A  wayward  thing,  by  foolishness  beguiled, 
To  discipline  but  little  reconciled. 

The  rabbit's  savour  lured  you  to  the  chase  ; 
You  bounded  joyously  about  the  place, 
To  slink  back  afterwards  in  sore  disgrace. 

Age  and  experience  modified  your  zeal, 
And  brought  you,  as  dependable  as  steel, 
Best  of  retrievers,  soberly  to  heel. 

Since  then — I  recollect  it  with  a  sigh, 

How  often  under  an  October  sky, 

We've  tramped  the  stretching  stubbles,  you  and  I ! 


PILOT  73. 

Or,  curbing  our  impatience  as  we  could, 
How  often  on  December  noons  have  stood, 
Beneath  the  corner  of  the  leafless  wood  ! 

Alas  !  there  comes,  as  I  recite  your  praise, 
Some  whisper  of  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
And  dim  forebodings  of  deserted  days. 

Labuntur  anni — when  I  feel  afraid, 

I  turn  to  watch  you,  philosophic,  staid, 

Plying  with  stolid  industry  your  trade. 

And  see  in  you  a  heart  of  stouter  cast, 
That  wastes  no  vain  regrets  upon  the  past. 
But  goes  about  his  duty  to  the  last. 


THE  COVERTS,  1914 


THE  COVERTS,  1914 

(TO    AN    ABSENT    ONE) 

WE  shot  them  early,  shot  them  blind, 
For  guns  were  difficult  to  find, 
But  still  the  old,  the  stiff,  the  thin, 
We  raked  them  out,  we  raked  them  in  ; 
The  halt,  the  breathless,  and  the  stout, 
We  raked  them  in,  we  raked  them  out, 
Until  at  last  we  stood  arrayed 
A  famous  Out-of-date  brigade. 

Less  fun  than  usual  seemed  to  mark 
Our  first  advance  across  the  Park, 
And  no-one  felt  inclined  to  tell 
Those  anecdotes  we  know  so  well. 

Then,  opening  at  the  Long  plantation, 
Your  correspondent  took  his  station 
Behind  the  oaktrees  by  the  mere 
Where  you  were  next  to  me  last  year, 
Last  autumn — last  November — no  ; 
That  was  a  thousand  years  ago. 


THE  COVERTS,  1914 


In  the  North  wood  I  occupied 
That  narrow  and  perplexing  ride, 
A  place  which,  if  I  recollect 
Aright,  you  specially  affect, 
Where  come  as  something  of  a  shock 
Brief  glimpses  of  the  floating  cock, 
And  where  I  plaster  far  and  nigh 
A  strip  of  unoffending  sky. 

So  on  and  so  forth  ;  here  and  there 
We  stood,  our  anxious  thoughts  elsewhere, 
And  wandered  on  from  stand  to  stand, 
The  mid-day  paper  in  our  hand, 
Conversing  as  we  went  our  way 
About  last  night's  communique. 


76  MURUM  AEDIFICANT 


MURUM  AEDIFICANT 
(AMATEUR  ROCK-GARDENERS) 


HERE  where  the  quarry  shale  is  soft, 
Where  frequent  land-slides  fall, 
Enormous  rocks  are  borne  aloft, 
And — Balbus  builds  a  wall. 


Assistant  gardeners  work  their  best 

To  excavate  the  loam, 
And  pile  the  boulders  with  the  zest 

Of  him  who  founded  Rome. 

Some  down  the  slope  the  rubbish  fling, 

While  some  with  ardour  pull 
The  ivy-roots,  and  others  bring 

Leaf-mould  by  barrowsful. 

What  though,  with  wastes  of  trodden  clay, 

With  shreds  of  bramble  torn, 
Our  new  creation  looks  to-day 

Disordered  and  forlorn  ? 


MURUM  AEDIFICANT  77 

What  though,  regarding  as  their  prize 

Each  seedling  that  aspires, 
The  rabbits  peer  with  hungry  eyes 

From  underneath  the  briars  ? 

No  matter  ;   still  with  faith  sublime 

Hope  runs  her  usual  rig, 
And  promises  a  tidier  time 

To  those  who  plant  and  dig  : 

A  time  when  phlox  and  iberis 

Shall  grace  the  coping's  brink, 
When  saxifrage  and  arabis 

Shall  tenant  every  chink — 

A  patch  of  green,  a  cloud  of  white, 

A  splash  of  purple  spilt, 
In  other  Aprils  making  bright 

The  wall  that  Balbus  built. 


78  THE  FOURTH  RIDDLE,  igi8 


THE  FOURTH  RIDDLE,  1918 
(PROVERBS  xxx.  18,  19) 

T  IFE  shewed  the  Wise  King  riddles  three, 

Eagle  and  snake  and  ship  at  sea, 
Yea,  and  a  Fourth — the  text  goes  on — 
A  Fourth  thing  staggered  Solomon. 

Within  the  workshop's  busy  walls, 
Draped  in  your  war-time  overalls, 
In  farm  and  garden,  field  and  byre, 

(Great  heart  !) 
You  labour  with  a  patriot's  fire. 

Now  you  behold  your  triumph  won, 
For  here,  as  meed  for  service  done, 
Is  freedom  of  our  wordy  fight, 

(Wise  heart  !) 
That  strives  to  set  Creation  right. 

What  sober  aims  and  ends  are  these  ! 
Yet  she  who  rose  from  whirling  seas 
Still  tarries  with  us,  fact  or  myth, 

(Dear  heart  !) 
A  goddess  to  be  reckoned  with. 


THE  FOURTH  RIDDLE,  1918 


She  whispers  through  the  clash  of  blades 
Her  same  old  rede  of  men  and  maids, 
And  of  that  power,  though  khaki-clad, 

(Sweet  heart  !) 
That  drove  —  and  drives  —  Creation  mad. 

So  we  may  mock  his  mysteries  three, 
Who  climb  the  cloud  and  plumb  the  sea, 
But,  proof  against  our  earthquake  test, 
The  King's  Fourth  Riddle  stays  unguessed. 


HAMBLEDON 


HAMBLEDON 

(AND  WHENEVER  A  HAMBLEDON  MAN  MADE  A  GOOD 
HIT  .  .  .  YOU  WOULD  HEAR  THE  DEEP  MOUTHS 
OF  THE  WHOLE  MULTITUDE  BAYING  AWAY  IN 

PURE  HAMPSHIRE,  "  GO  HARD  !     GO  HARD  !     Tich 

AND  TURN  !    Tick  AND  TURN  !  ")     Nyren. 

YOU,  batsmen  of  our  later  days, 
Who  stand  erect  and  proud, 
What  time  your  frequent  f ourers  raise 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 
Here  is  the  kindled  zeal  aflame 

That  first  began  to  burn, 
When  those  old  Hampshire  yokels  came 
And  shouted  "  Tich  and  turn  !  " 

You,  critics  with  the  captious  eyes, 

Your  vigilant  review 
From  the  pavilion  balconies 

Is  nothing  strange  or  new  ; 
Your  prototypes  were  met  in  strength 

With  sapient  nod  and  smile, 
To  pass  the  word  on  Barber's  length, 

Or  Harry  Walker's  style. 


HAMBLEDON  81 


You,  patrons  of  the  cheaper  seats, 

The  fervour  and  the  thirst, 
With  which  you  celebrate  the  feats 

Of  Hayward  and  of  Hirst, 
Recall  the  rustic  partisan 

Who  drank  to  the  renown 
Of  Small  or  Scott,  or  Noah  Mann, 

Long  since,  on  Windmill  Down. 


When  to  acclaim  the  master-stroke 

Our  modern  cries  resound, 
Applause  that  cleaves  the  Sheffield  smoke, 

Or  thunders  from  the  Mound  ; 
What  is  it  but  the  village  voice 

That  made  the  welkin  ring, 
To  hail  the  champion  of  its  choice, 

When  Farmer  George  was  King  ? 


To  rank  and  wealth  in  all  their  pride 
Upon  the  coach  displayed, 

To  impecunious  youth  astride 
The  playground's  palisade, 

To  ardent  patriots  on  the  tram, 
Who  follow  by  degrees, 

From  cablegram  to  cablegram, 

The  Test  match  overseas, 
F 


82  HAMBLEDON 


The  fever  spreads  :  while  far  away, 

Across  the  vanished  years, 
Ring  forth  on  afternoons  of  May 

Those  Hambledonian  cheers  : 
That  strange  enchantment,  after  all 

They  were  the  first  to  learn, 
Who  watched  the  strife  of  bat  and  ball 

With  shouts  of  "  Tick  and  turn  !  " 


THE  YOUNG  IDEA  83 


THE  YOUNG  IDEA 

(AT  WALK) 

YOU  wander  about  my  gravel  walks, 
(Barmaid,  Barmaid,  in  with  you,  Barmaid  /) 
You  tumble  among  the  carnation  stalks, 
And  the  children  laugh,  and  the  gardener  talks. 
(Barmaid,  forrard  away  !) 

Our  sober  pug  at  your  folly  scowls, 

(Barmaid,  Barmaid,  in  with  you,  Barmaid  /) 
But  you  roll  him  over,  despite  his  growls, 
And  playfully  bite  his  ear  till  he  howls. 
(Barmaid,  forrard  away  I) 

Wild  oats,  young  lady.     The  flowers  of  June, 
(Barmaid,  Barmaid,  in  with  you,  Barmaid  /) 
And  the  fun  of  life  will  be  over  soon  : 
Then,  what  of  the  grey  November  noon  ? 
(Barmaid,  forrard  away  /) 


84  THE  YOUNG  IDEA 

What  of  the  serious  work  ahead, 

(Barmaid,  Barmaid,  in  with  you,  Barmaid  /) 
When  the  horn  has  gone,  and  the  rogue  in  red 
Is  slinking  away  from  the  osier  bed  ? 
(Barmaid,  forrard  away !) 


VERB  A  NON  FACT  A 


VERBA  NON  FACTA 

"\  T  7  HEN  once  again  he  hears  the  voice 

*  V      Of  umpires  calling  "  Play," 
Needs  must  the  veteran's  heart  rejoice 

The  challenge  to  obey. 
He  sees  the  line  of  boundary  flags, 

The  tent,  the  scoring-board, 
And  cannot  credit  that  he  lags 

Superfluous  on  the  sward. 


Cheerful  he  comes,  although  he  feels 

That  this,  the  greatest  game, 
In  every  batting-list  reveals 

A  certain  loss  of  fame, 
When  he,  the  old  protagonist, 

Observes  with  some  surprise 
The  name  that  used  to  head  the  list 

Placed  next  before  the  byes. 


86  VERB  A  NON  FACT  A 

What  then  ?    He  takes  the  thing  to  mean 

That  more  experienced  nerve 
Will  form — should  panic  supervene — 

A  capable  reserve  ; 
And  that,  when  youngsters  fear  and  quake, 

His  destiny's  command 
Dictates  a  glorious  chance  to  make 

A  long  last-wicket  stand. 


As  with  the  bat  so  with  the  ball, 

And  byegone  hours  come  back, 
When  he  was  honoured  with  the  call 

To  open  the  attack  : 
Alas  !  this  compliment  is  gone, 

Captains  and  creeds  are  strange, 
And  all  too  rarely  he  goes  on 

Till  sixth  or  seventh  change. 


Well,  he  can  still  be  happy  while 

He  waits  his  turn  to  bowl, 
And  lay  with  a  contented  smile 

This  unction  to  his  soul ; 
That  when  the  score  is  mounting  high, 

And  batsmen  work  their  will, 
These  are  the  straits  that  really  try 

And  test  a  bowler's  skill. 


VERB  A  NON  FACT  A 


Thus,  although  laid  to  all  intent 

And  purpose  on  the  shelf, 
Will  he  extract  from  the  event 

Some  solace  for  himself  ; 
And  though  brief  sojourns  at  the  crease 

His  hopes  of  triumph  baulk, 
They  give  long  intervals  of  peace 

When  he  may  rest — and  talk. 


Sheltered  beneath  a  broad-brimmed  hat, 

His  spell  of  fielding  done, 
He  sits,  as  once  old  Kaspar  sat, 

And  gossips  in  the  sun, 
Of  many  a  noble  innings  played, 

That  won  applause  and  praise, 
Of  runs  that  great  Achilles  made 

In  ante-test-match  days. 


And  ever,  as  his  present  deeds 

Advance  a  milder  claim, 
In  those  far-off  Elysian  meads 

He  plays  a  finer  game  ; 
And  ever,  as  his  youth  retreats, 

From  memory's  kindly  stores 
He  gleans  more  splendid  bowling  feats, 

And  more  amazing  scores. 


THE  LAST  POSTBOY 


THE  LAST  POSTBOY 


LAST  of  his  kind,   let   him  a  claim  to  elegy 
advance, 
In  honour  of  the  part  he  played  in  Life  and  Life's 

romance, 
Who  with  the  post-chaise  used  to  wait,  his  old  roan 

nag  astride, 

Against  the  sign-post  in  the  lane  for  bridegroom  and 
for  bride. 


He  knew,  he  guessed  at  nothing — he  was  deaf  and 

dumb  and  blind, 
But  he  sprang  his  weary  horses  at  the  sound  of 

wheels  behind  ; 
Then  ducked  his  cap  discreetly  when  the  atmosphere 

grew  hot, 
And  he  heard  the  shouting  voices,  angry  oath  and 

pistol  shot. 


THE  LAST  POSTBOY 


To  us,  a  prosier  people,  he  is  gallant  if  grotesque, 
A  pantomime  conspirator,  preposterous,  picturesque, 
Yet  with  a  flavour  of  the  days  when  men  would  do 

and  dare, 
Before  the  blacksmith's  anvil  was  exchanged  for 

Eaton  Square. 


So  think  upon  him  gently,  for  to  many  a  wavering 

will 

He  sat,  a  symbol  of  the  die  cast  down  for  good  or  ill, 
And  many  men,  and  many  maids,  whose  ardour 

burned  like  Etna, 
He  piloted — one  likes  to  hope — to  happiness  and 

Gretna. 


go  LAMPADEPHORIA 


LAMPADEPHORIA 
(SCHOOL  TORCHLIGHT  PROCESSION) 

T)  UGLES  and  drums  and  measured  paces, 
-U     Torches  that  flicker  in  the  air, 
Serried  squadrons  of  eager  faces 

Lit  by  the  dusky  flare  ; 
In  the  June  twilight  see  him  stand 
Youth  with  fire  in  his  hand. 

Here  where  the  brothers  of  Saint  Augustine 

Once  in  the  far-off  summertide, 
Serving  the  God  that  they  put  their  trust  in 

Pondered  and  dreamed  and  died, 
On  the  quiet  journey  that  wound  along 
From  Matins  to  Evensong, 

Waits,  where  the  white-haired  dreamers  waited, 
Waited  the  call  of  the  silent  night, 

Youth  invincible,  youth  elated, 
Youth  all-armed  for  the  fight ; 

Comes  where  the  worn-out  brothers  came 

Youth  with  his  torch  aflame. 


LAMPADEPHORIA 


Peril  and  pain  shall  daunt  him  never  ; 

Nay  !  he  shall  overrun  the  earth. 
What  shall  he  not  of  bold  endeavour, 

He  with  his  pride  and  worth  ? 
Hurrying  onward,  climbing  higher, 
Always  carrying  the  fire. 


02  OXONIENSIS  OXONIENSI 


OXONIENSIS  OXONIENSI 

(CECIL   RHODES    DIED   MARCH   26TH,    IQO2) 

OUR  mistress  of  the  Golden  Gate, 
She  hath  her  tale  of  noble  sons, 
Whose  names  in  annals  of  the  State 

Are  writ  for  him  to  read  who  runs  ; 
Glorious  and  great  protagonists, 
Each  in  his  own  allotted  span, 
Who  triumphed  in  the  crowded  lists 
And  bore  her  colours  in  the  van. 


She  knows  her  champions  of  the  past, 

Whose  deeds  of  righteousness  and  truth 
Have  dignified  the  Queen  that  cast 

Her  spell  about  their  hour  of  youth  ; 
But,  though  she  scan  her  records  well, 

And  search  her  golden  roll  of  fame, 
She  finds  therein  no  parallel 

To  set  with  this  amazing  name. 


OXONIENS1S  OXONIENSI  93 

No  son  who  fought  and  thought  as  he, 

Nor  one  who  bore  so  far  afield 
Through  such  strange  shifts  of  destiny 

The  aegis  of  her  azure  shield  : 
Not  one  like  this  adventurous  heart, 

Who  rose  to  greatness,  blame,  and  praise 
In  lines  that  fell  so  far  apart 

From  her  sequestered  garden  ways. 


Dead  worthies  in  her  graves  are  laid, 

For  each  his  carven  stone  survives, 
Half-hidden  in  some  cloistered  shade, 

As  grey  and  quiet  as  their  lives  ; 
He  sleeps  beneath  another  sky, 

Sleeps  in  the  trackless  waste  that  seems, 
Lonely  and  vast,  to  testify 

To  his  illimitable  dreams. 


94  EASTER  PSALMS 


EASTER  PSALMS 
(1918) 

TV"  INGS  of  the  earth  stand  up  and  thunder, 
AV     (Can  you  not  hear  the  battle  strains  ?) 
Come  let  us  break  their  bonds  asunder,     • 
Come  let  us  cast  away  their  chains. 

Then  music  more  subdued  in  sound 

(Oh,  anxious  hearts  !)  the  prophet  sings, 

Of  mercy,  and  of  refuge  found 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings. 

Yet  ends  in  triumph  at  the  last, 

Of  wondrous  work  (Oh,  splendid  youth  !) 

And  of  commandments  standing  fast, 
That  are  done  in  equity  and  truth. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

STAND  round  the  piano,  old  and  young, 
The  bells — the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas  ! 
And  ere  the  New  Year's  chime  be  rung, 
Let  the  Old  Year's  farewell  be  sung, 

As  we  wait  for  the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas. 

Old  Year,  good  night !     He  must  not  stay. 

The  bells — the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas  ! 
Draws  to  its  close  his  latest  day  ; 
For  good  or  evil  he's  away, 

To  the  sound  of  the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas, 

Now  forth  into  the  winter  night ; 

The  bells — the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas  ! 
Come  where  the  frosty  lawn  is  white  ; 
Come  out ;  the  calendar's  alight, 

And  wait  for  the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 


Hark  !  the  clock  tells  the  Old  Year's  doom  ; 

The  bells-— the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas  I 
Far  off  the  guns  begin  to  boom, 
And  the  chime  crashes  through  the  gloom, 

The  chime  of  the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas. 

New  Year,  New  Year  !    May  we  be  bold 

The  bells— the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas  ! 
To  face  the  secrets  yet  untold 
Which  your  mysterious  hours  may  hold. 
Listen  to  the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas. 

Surely  to  comfort  our  alarms, 

The  bells— the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas  I 
They  show  beyond  all  hurts  and  harms 
Stretched  forth  the  Everlasting  Arms. 
Listen  to  the  bells  of  Saint  Nicholas. 


EPHEMERIS  97 


EPHEMERIS 
(THE  MAY-FLY) 

YOU  fluttered  forth  above  the  sedge, 
Fulfilled  with  joy  of  living, 
You  danced  along  the  water's  edge 

Without  the  least  misgiving  ; 
Yet,  fluttering,  dancing,  nearer  drew, 

By  some  strange  impulse  bidden, 
To  that  bright  surface  where,  I  knew, 
Your  certain  doom  lay  hidden. 


Then,  underneath  the  alder  boughs, 

You  lighted  on  an  eddy, 
As  if  your  sunlit  hour's  carouse 

Had  wearied  you  already  ; 
And,  while  you  preened  your  gauzy  wings, 

A  cheerful  and  a  gay  fly, 
I  saw  the  spread  of  circling  rings, 

Where  there  had  been  a  May-fly. 
G 


98  EPHEMBRIS 


Such  was  your  life  to  death  from  birth, 

And,  dazzling  in  its  brevity, 
It  seems  to  set  a  curious  worth, 

By  contrast,  on  longevity  ; 
So  that,  if  measuring  our  careers, 

My  longer  limit  flatters, 
I  ask  myself  if,  hours  or  years, 

The  difference  really  matters. 


Thus  do  I  spin  your  elegy, 

Yet,  knowing  what  shall  follow, 
I  feel  my  sentiments  to  be 

Not  only  trite  but  hollow  ; 
One  waiting  for  the  trout  to  rise     - 

Admits  the  thought  as  treasonable, 
Yet  cannot  reckon  your  demise, 

Though  tragic,  as  unseasonable. 


The  spot  where,  resolute  or  rash, 

You  chose  to  float  and  flounder, 
Concealed,  to  judge  him  by  his  splash, 

A  good  three-quarter-pounder ; 
Above  whose  greedy  nose  shall  sail, 

Just  where  he  rose  to  strike  you, 
A  fly  with  something  in  his  tail, 

Like  you — yet  not  quite  like  you. 


THE  MERMAID 


THE  MERMAID 

(OF  THE  FOUNTAIN.  SHE  STANDS  IN  THE  HIGHLAND 
GARDEN,  WITH  A  SPOUTING  DOLPHIN  IN  HER 
ARMS,  AND  LOOKS  ACROSS  THE  LOCH) 

S^lUEEN  0/S0W0  dim,  sea-murmuring,  cave, 
z£     I  look  across  the  gleaming  wave 
From  Kinglas  Point  to  Dunderave. 

Admire  me,  sometimes  grave  and  sad, 
Sometimes  inscrutable  and  glad, 
Like  one  that  wonders  if  my  years 
Of  vigil  bring  me  mirth  or  tears. 

About  me  now  are  joyous  tones, 
And  pattering  feet  upon  the  stones, 
Voices  that  call  on  lawn  or  beach, 
With  children  answering,  each  to  each. 

An  exile  here — ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
I  envy  those  who  gain  the  sea, 
Sportive  and  splashing  and  alive, 
Mermaids  themselves,  who  swim  and  dive. 


THE  MERMAID 


And  if  some  envy  me,  who  wish 
That  they,  like  I,  had  got  a  fish, 
No  matter — all  is  blithe  and  gay, 
Laughter  and  Life  and  Holiday. 

What's  Life  to  me,  to  spend  or  save, 
Who  look  across  the  Eternal  wave 
From  Kinglas  Point  to  Dunderave  ? 

To-day,  To-morrow — even  so  ; 
The  golden  Augusts  come  and  go, 
Until  on  this  deserted  hall 
The  shadows  and  the  silence  fall. 

The  laughing  voices  ring  no  more, 
The  redshank  whistles  down  the  shore, 
The  great  stag  roars  on  Cruach-side, 
The  great  sea  murmurs,  tide  by  tide. 

My  garden  kingdom  holds  but  me, 
My  dolphin  spouts  with  none  to  see, 
While  here,  the  lonely  whiter  through 
I  wait  and  watch  and  wait  for  you. 

So,  year  by  year,  half-glad,  half-grave, 
I  look  across  the  sunset  wave 
From  Kinglas  Point  to  Dunderave. 


THE  TRIUMPH 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ORIANA 
(QUEEN  ELIZABETH  DIED,  MARCH  24TH,  1603) 

T  ONG  live  fair  Oriana  !    So 
We  celebrate  her  praise, 
With  these  quaint  compliments  that  go 
Back  to  her  spacious  days. 

What  though  the  years  have  wrought  their  will, 

What  though  the  Queen  be  old, 
Though  night  be  fallen  on  Latmos  Hill, 

And  all  the  tale  be  told  ; 

She  still  shall  triumph,  never  fear, 

So  long  as  history's  page 
Brings  back  for  us  the  atmosphere 

Of  her  amazing  age. 

Her  sailors,  poets,  men  of  state, 

Her  courtiers  on  their  knees, 
The  storms  that  blew  to  dissipate 

Her  foeman's  argosies, 


™j£  -T&UMPH  OF  ORIANA 


She  moves  among  them,  grim  and  grave, 
And,  while  her  memory  stands 

For  that  proud  enterprise  that  drave 
Far  over  seas  and  lands 

Her  kingdom's  glory,  ever  shall 

The  centuries  acclaim, 
As  in  our  loyal  madrigal, 

Fair  Oriana's  name. 


THE  MASTER'S  MATCH.    1889-1914  103 


THE  MASTER'S  MATCH.     1889-1914 

(EPILOGUE  TO  A  BOOK  OF  THE  SCORES  OF  A  VILLAGE 
CRICKET  MATCH,  PLAYED  EVERY  SEASON  FOR 
FIVE  AND  TWENTY  YEARS,  AT  ETWALL,  IN 
DERBYSHIRE) 

rT"*HOUGH  critics  visit  with  disdain 
-L      This  book,  and  canvass  it  in  vain 
For  stirring  deeds  and  striking  thoughts, 
Amid  a  tale  of  ones  and  noughts  ;. 


What  matter  ?  for  the  faithful  few, 
Who  turn  these  pages  in  review — 
For  them  this  homely  record  lies 
Instinct  with  happy  memories. 

Memories  of  matches  lost  and  won, 
Of  summer  afternoons  and  sun, 
Of  many  a  doughty  innings  played, 
Of  catches  missed  and  catches  made. 


104  THE  MASTER'S  MATCH.    1889-1914 

Again  upon  the  village  ground 
Comment  and  colloquy  go  round, 
In  the  slow  friendly  Midland  tongue, 
Echoing  from  years  when  we  were  young. 

Again  the  light  and  shadow  pass 
Across  green  slopes  of  Meynell  grass  ; 
The  incense  of  the  fallen  hay 
Comes  from  dim  meadows  Trusley  way. 

Dull  figures  ?     Nay,  an  Epic  told 
By  warriors  obsolete  and  old, 
And  piped  to  an  enchanting  tune 
By  all  the  radiant  gods  of  June. 


HOLIDAY  IN  WARTIME  105 


HOLIDAY  IN  WARTIME 

(TO    M.  F.  N.) 

HPHERE  aye  no  noisy  London  streets, 
-»-      No  Huns,  no  guns  across  the  sea, 

Only  the  summer  sun  that  beats 
Down  upon  lawn  and  lilac  tree, 
Lilacs  and  lawns  in  Arcadie. 


No  orgie  of  appalling  sound, 

Only  the  song  of  soaring  lark, 
And,  when  the  twilight  hour  comes  round, 

Late-calling  cuckoos  in  the  park, 

And  night- jars  thrumming  through  the  dark. 

While  in  the  wood  the  pipes  of  Pan 
Hold  forth — at  least  for  you  and  me — 

Promise  of  some  diviner  plan, 
When  in  the  peaceful  days  to  be 
Shepherds  return  to  Arcadie. 


THE  TWO  LAST  COLLECTS 


THE  TWO  LAST  COLLECTS 

YOU  shall  read  your  portion  of  Book  and  Psalter, 
With  the  First  of  the  Day  appointed  there, 
And  the  two  last  Collects  shall  never  alter, 
But  daily  be  said  at  Morning  Prayer. 

Is  it  all  lip-service,  and  grown  habitual, 
Since  that  shall  be  that  hath  ever  been  ? 

Nay  :  something  shall  one  day  light  your  ritual, 
To  show  what  the  two  last  Collects  mean. 

You  shall  pray  the  Author  of  Peace  to  friend  you, 
For  all  your  frailties  and  all  your  faults, 

You  shall  pray  that  His  strength  may  still  defend 

you, 
His  humble  servants,  in  all  assaults. 

Then,  safely  brought  to  the  day's  beginning 
By  the  power  of  the  everlasting  might, 

You  shall  promise  yourselves,  the  weak,  the  sinning, 
To  do  that  is  righteous  in  His  sight. 


THE  TWO  LAST  COLLECTS  107 

And  courage  may  fail,  and  hearts  may  falter, 

But  His  protection  shall  never  cease, 
Like  the  two  last  Collects  that  never  alter — 

You  shall  always  pray  for  Grace  and  Peace. 


io8 


WEDDING  HYMN 


:     ".* 


WEDDING  HYMN 

TO  Thee  our  prayers,  O  Saviour,  rise 
That  from  Thy  throne  above 
Thou  wilt  behold  with  gracious  eyes 
Thy  servants'  act  of  love. 

For  Thou  hast  bought  us  with  a  price, 

Thyself  the  first  to  teach 
To  what  great  heights  of  sacrifice 

Redeeming  love  can  reach. 

So  bless  Thy  children  here,  we  pray, 

Who,  joining  life  to  life, 
Before  Thine  altar  kneel  to-day 

To  leave  it  man  and  wife. 


Grant  that  through  all  their  earthly  care, 

With  Thee  their  only  guide, 
They  may  till  death  Thy  promise  share 

Together  side  by  side. 


WEDDING  HYMN  log 


And  in  that  land  which  doth  not  see 

Or  sun  or  moon  by  night, 
Whose  gates  are  praise,  where  God  shall  be 

Their  everlasting  light ; 

When  all  the  shadows  are  withdrawn, 

Before  Thee  they  may  stand, 
To  welcome  the  eternal  dawn. 

Together  hand  in  hand. 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 
(PROLOGUE  TO  A  REPRINT) 

THE  Happy  Years — the  years  that  went  before, 
The  years  whose  epitaph  is  writ  in  gold, 
You  that  were  happy  in  them,  turn  once  more, 

Turn  and  review  their  tale  already  told, 
And,  as  a  fitting  Prologue,  open  out 
The  Book  of  Recollection — and  behold 

What  pictures  lie  therein — blue  carpets  drawn 
Of  harebells  in  Calf  Close  at  every  turn, 

The  blaze  of  rhododendrons  on  the  lawn, 
Scarlet  tropaeolum  and  grey  stone  urn, 

Walks  in  the  Yaxes  and  the  Serpentine, 
With  Joe  and  Caspar  hunting  in  the  fern. 

Peach-blossom  pink  against  the  greenhouse  pane, 
And  tits  like  sapphires  dancing  on  the  tree  ; 

The  white  spring  evening  in  the  West  again, 
Green  dragon  cups  and  new-laid  eggs  for  tea  ; 

Violets  and  freesias  in  the  dining-room, 
Freesias  and  violets — that  such  things  could  be  ! 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 


The  bustling  humours  of  the  midnight  jaunt, 
That  bore  us  Northward  to  enchanted  ground, 

To  wade  brown  rapids  that  the  salmon  haunt, 
To  climb  steep  corries  where  the  grouse  are  found  ; 

What  expectation  as  the  day  drew  near, 

What  festive  gatherings  when  the  Twelfth  came 
round  ! 

The  many  Happy  Christmases  that  brought 
Children  and  crackers,  revelry  and  fun, 

Wizards  that  mutter,  Indian  braves  that  fought, 
Carols  and  presents,  and  the  Currant  Bun  ; 

With  hallowed  rites  that  greeted  the  New  Years, 
As  the  Old  Years  departed  one  by  one. 

Good  Bye,  old  Happy  Years  !     We  look  across 
To  your  calm  spaces  from  our  stormy  day, 

To  treasures  of  Remembrance  which  no  loss, 
No  tears  of  afterward,  can  take  away, 

To  a  glad  heritage  for  grateful  hearts, 

Who  on  your  grave  their  withered  tribute  lay. 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  BY  ROBERT  MACLEHOSE  AND  CO.  LTD. 
AT  THE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS,   GLASGOW. 


481076 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


YC160560 


